Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Death To Meat Heads

Yes, we can all see the blood-pumping veins protruding from your biceps in between your seventh and eighth inverted curl, please stop having a staring contest with yourself in the mirror. We all know how large your own ego is. 
            
For full effect, download “Let The Bodies Hit The Floor” by Drowning Pool, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
            
May I ask, has anything changed in that reflective plate from the last time you stopped to admire yourself less than 40 seconds earlier? Did your shoulders spring an extra three inches? Did the line in your quads become just a little more defined than before? Go ahead, check yourself one more time. We’ll all just sit back in between your second and third set to make sure you do look as physically appealing as ever.    

Cue golf clap from the 18th at St. Andrews from a crowd overcome with awe at the physical specimen that they just witnessed. 
    
Cue right middle finger being inserted down the back of my throat to instigate vomiting session on the decline bench where I am seated.    
           
You sir, are a reason why I feel the need to take a 20-minute shower in semi-boiling water to rid myself from your egotistical vibrations. You make me want to not look at my own self in the mirror and see a pudgy putz with overly large love handles staring back.      
            
In my own eyes, I am an ogre. 
            
I am a fat bastard.
            
I am out of shape.
            
In your eyes I may appear to be someone that could be the middle class of an Ironman triathlon. That’s what I may appear to you, but to me, when I look in the mirror, I’m a slab of undercooked meat. 
            
I am a missed protein shake away from a corroded artery. 
            
I am a repugnant slob who needs to shave another 8 seconds off my 10k before the diabetes decides to set in.
           
I am not however, a pretentious, shallow numbnut who parades around in a cutoff Gold’s t-shirt, flexing my latissimus dorsi, and clavicular pectoralis majora for the ladies to fawn over. I am not a 27-point I.Q. offensive lineman who has to grunt after every rep of my seated row, just so everyone in the gym can see how HARD I AM WORKING! YEAH!!!
            
I am not an annoying stickler who stands next to the hottest of all hotties on the elliptical, recounting the amazing one-handed catch I had in an intramural football game last week. I am not a fake-n-baker.
            
I am not a 5'4" skimpy tattoo-adorned stick figure wearing merely a Q-tip, a pink satin ribbon, and a rubber band to show off my "hot bod".
             
Where I go, as I have begun the reconstruction process of my physical appearance, goes to show that this world has problems. Big ones. When people dedicate their lives solely for the purpose of stretching their musculus deltoideus in front of the mirror just so everyone else can see how toned they are. We as a society have issues.
            
That’s not why you should be shaping those muscles into place you idiot, you should be doing it for the betterment of your overall physical condition, not so that you can catch her ogling you from the treadmill three rows back.  
            
“You mind givin’ me a spot?” A muttonhead asks without making eye contact.  
            
Common courtesy in a gym is not something I remember being mentioned in “The Bro Code”.
            
He pumps, spraying out the reps to me, to the surrounding patrons, to the entire gym, assuming that for some reason I decided to take a nap every single morning in my kindergarten counting drills.     
            
One. Two. Three. 
            
He lifts for the physical gratification of knowing that his butt will match his pecs, and that his body fat will be less than four percent.   
            
Four. Five. Six.
            
He lifts so when she rips his shirt off at the club, a flash pause of carnal craving will catch her off guard while she admires his solid, toned, bronze-tanned abdominal muscles that she could sharpen her entire set of cutlery on. 
            
Seven. Eight.
            
He lifts for not feeling nauseous while looking at himself in the mirror when he steps out of the shower.  
            
Nine. 
            
I lift because I don’t want to end up like the 387-pound Twinkie I saw last night on “Hoarders”.     
            
Ten. 
            
He steam engines the last blast so bold his spit hits my forehead while I’m re-racking the weight. Thank you for deciding to spray your saliva on my brow without asking for my consent. Favors for meatheads are not recognized by Karma whatsoever.
            
“Hey, you done here?” He wipes his face without looking up from a towel that he probably hasn’t washed since the day he decided to hit puberty. 
            
“Yeah, I’m out.” I say. 
            
I am your vacated New Year’s resolution, surrounded by filth in a box full of junkies.  

What do you think?

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